


A Queer Customer

by Persiflager



Category: Nero Wolfe - Rex Stout
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 09:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7356142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflager/pseuds/Persiflager
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Lionel Hattersley sat down at a quarter past three on that hot summer afternoon and said, ‘Mr Wolfe, I am a homosexual’, Wolfe’s only response was to press the button for his beer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Queer Customer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Plaid_Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Plaid_Slytherin/gifts).



I have seldom seen Nero Wolfe discombobulated by anything a potential client says when they first sit down in the red leather chair in Wolfe’s office in the old brownstone on Thirty-Fourth Street. That’s partly because of the nature of our business - hardly anybody hires a private detective to investigate matters that they’d be happy to have splashed across the front page of the Gazette, and over the years we’ve heard some lulus. But mostly it’s because he just doesn’t care. At that first meeting Wolfe is either mostly uninterested or completely uninterested, depending largely on the state of the bank balance. When a case is on he’s capable of being agitated, if someone says something that jolts whatever theory he’s been nurturing along, but that’s because his self-esteem is involved. Before then you could walk into the office with a bloody knife declaring that you’d just killed the President, and Wolfe’s only concern would be for the Kashan rug.

So when Lionel Hattersley sat down at a quarter past three on that hot summer afternoon and said, ‘Mr Wolfe, I am a homosexual’, Wolfe’s only response was to press the button for his beer.

As I had never met a self-declared homosexual before, I looked Mr Hattersley over with interest. He was around forty, broad-shouldered, nearly as tall as me and had a friendly, open, all-American sort of face, the kind you’d trust with a baby or your life savings. If it hadn’t been for his $500 suit I’d have guessed he was there to sell us dictionaries.

“I have begun by stating that fact not in an attempt to shock you, but because it is at the center of the matter about which I am here to consult you, and I don’t see any point in beating around it. I also need to know whether you feel obliged to report to the police any crimes you might accidentally uncover in the course of an investigation.”

Now that the foam in his bottle was down to the right level, Wolfe stirred. He lifted the bottle to his lips, closed his eyes, drank, opened them again, put it back down on his desk, and, in a concession to the fact we had a guest, removed a handkerchief from his top pocket to wipe the line of foam from his lips. “Rarely do I feel so obliged,” he said. “I would for murder. I would not for a misdemeanor.”

Sodomy had recently been reduced from a felony to a misdemeanor in the state of New York, which I knew because Wolfe had mentioned it in a lecture over dinner, taking in the Ancient Greeks, the Romans and the poems of W. H. Auden, which Wolfe thought were pretty good for an Englishman.

“Good,” said Mr Hattersley, and his broad shoulders relaxed. “The problem is that I am being blackmailed. I want you to find the person responsible and stop it.”

“My fees are high.” 

“That doesn’t concern me, I’m rich.” That was no idle boasting. From the telephoning I’d done earlier that afternoon, Hattersley had close to twenty million in the bank, plus property all over the state. “If it was just me I’d go to the police - six months in jail would be worth it for the satisfaction. But I will not cause others to suffer for my principles.”

“Archie, your notebook,” said Wolfe, and he leaned back in his chair.

The blackmail has started the previous month with an anonymous note sent to Mr Hattersley’s home address asking for five hundred dollars in used bills to be sent to a certain address care of a Mr Brown or the sender would give the information they had to the police. Hattersley had visited the address and found that it was a large drugstore where they often held parcels and letters to be collected. Nobody who worked there would admit to knowing anything about a Mr Brown.

“Of course they wouldn’t,” said Wolfe, annoyed as much by Hattersley’s energetic approach as by his mis-handling of the situation. “And now you have warned his or her accomplice, it will be twice as hard for us to discover anything.”

The letter hadn’t specified exactly what evidence Mr Brown had but it had named dates and locations, and as far as Hattersley could recall they were accurate. From what he said I doubted whether any witness would be able to give enough evidence to make a conviction stick but even a failed prosecution would be enough to damage the reputations of both Hattersley and his friend.

Hattersley clammed up when we got onto the subject of his friend. He hadn’t told him about the blackmail and didn’t want him to be bothered. He wouldn’t even tell us his name until Wolfe promised that we wouldn’t approach him without speaking to Hattersley first, and he downright refused to bring him in.

“Surely you see that I must speak to him,” said Wolfe, exasperated. “He will almost certainly have information that I need. How do you expect me to work for you if you won’t furnish the basic requirements?”

“He doesn’t know anything that I don’t know,” said Hattersley, sticking his chin up. “At least, not about this.”

“He could have told someone about your relationship.”

“Not a chance. He’s much more discreet than I am.”

“But not absolutely. No man is, and anything less than absolute discretion is vulnerable to attack.” Wolfe pressed his lips together and closed his eyes for a moment before opening them and glaring at Hattersley. “Bring him here.”

“I will not.”

“Then I cannot act for you in this matter.”

Hattersley opened his mouth to object, then caught himself. “You’re right.” He looked at me. “Your man here, Mr-?”

“Goodwin. Archie Goodwin,” I said, grinning to show that there were no hard feelings on account of his not remembering my name. Hattersley was queer, and rich, and I had decided to make allowances on both counts.

“Mr Goodwin,” said Hattersley with a nod. “If he came with me, and I introduced him to Jim, and anyone else he needed to speak to - could that work?”

Wolfe shifted his eyes in my direction and gave the matter some thought. I could appreciate his dilemma -relying solely on my reportage, good as it was, was an irritating way to work. On the other hand, it was ten minutes to four, all the initial effort would be mine, and clients who were grateful to get out from under the boot of a blackmailer tended not to quibble much about the size of their bill.

“Very well,” he said, heaving himself to his feet. “Mr Goodwin will discuss the details with you now and report back to me when he returns. If I decide that the information gained thereby is insufficient for me to work on, I will inform you in the morning and invoice you for any expenses incurred.” He inclined his head a sixteenth of an inch and left.

…

Hattersley was in the habit of meeting Jim in a basement bar way down on 10th street, smack in the middle of the Village. He drove us there and parked across the street before showing me in. 

The approach we had agreed on was very close to the truth. If asked, I was there on behalf of Nero Wolfe investigating a blackmail attempt that had been made on Mr Hattersley, except that I wasn’t to admit to there being another party compromised. This struck me as fruity thinking. The newspaper articles regarding the change of law had been pretty clear that another person was required for sodomy, even if they had been coy when it came to the mechanical details. But I let it go on the grounds that anyone with half a brain would see through it. 

I didn’t go into all that with the barman, who was a big, tired-looking guy with not an ounce of swish in him. I merely asked if there’d been any trouble in the bar recently or if he had any problem customers, both of which he answered in the negative. 

If there was any mileage in the case Wolfe would send Fred Durkin over the next day to enquire again. Fred is not the brightest dick in the city but he has two strengths - tailing and making friends with barmen. I have rarely entered a bar with Fred and met a barman who he does not already know by name, and on those rare occasions he’s known it by the time we left. It’s one of the things that makes him worthy of being on the same payroll as Saul Panzer, of whom my opinion isn’t much higher than the Chrysler building.

Hattersley ordered us a couple of bourbons and we went and sat down at a table that had a good view of the room. I couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed. The newspaper reports had led me to expect a bustling hive of debauchery but the only other customer was an elderly gentleman reading a newspaper at the bar.

“Do you recognise him?” I asked.

Hattersley shook his head. “Not everyone who comes in here is - you know. Maybe not even all the regulars.” 

He didn’t seem to notice he was drumming the fingers of his right hand on the table. I’d have liked to have known whether it was my presence or just being in the bar that was making him so jittery but asking wouldn’t make him less so, and I needed him calm so that his acquaintances didn’t get suspicious.

“How did you find this place?”

“A friend told me about it.”

“Is he a regular?”

“Paul? Oh, no.” He smiled as if I’d said something funny. “He’s far too careful to be seen in a place like this. I don’t even know his real name - that’s why I can say ‘Paul’ to you, because I know that’s just a name he uses. He always said I’d get into trouble one day, the way I went about things, but what I say is that it’s worth a little risk to be honest with people. He’s smart, much smarter than me, and he’d never get caught out like I have, but I think he must be lonely.” 

He cocked his head. “It’s funny, you remind me of him a little, even though you don’t look anything like him. I think it’s the way you look at things - like you’re taking every detail in for later.”

I stayed on the subject of Paul for a few minutes but Hattersley hadn’t seen him in years and anyway insisted on ruling him out on the grounds of personal knowledge of his character. 

The regulars started drifting in over the next hour or so. Hattersley filled me in with names and other details as far as he knew them. A few of them slung a curious glance across at the two of us as they came in but none came over to say hello, so I marked the homosexuals down for lack of friendliness. They were also, on the whole, no better-dressed than the average man in New York city, so they were two points down and falling fast by the time Hattersley’s friend showed up.

Hattersley’s friend was not the average man. He was a dandy. He had a neat little moustache that looked as if he trimmed each hair individually, and from his jaunty grey hat with violet trim to his bright blue suit and right down to his well-shined shoes, there was nothing he wore that had come right off the rack. If it hadn’t been for the scowl he directed at me as he approached, I’d have been inclined to ask him where he shopped.

“Hello, Lionel,” he said, staring down at me.

I decided not to take offence at his rudeness. I would have hated to have to mess up his suit.

“Hello, Jim,” said Hattersley, and I’ll be darned if he didn’t have the goopiest expression on his face I’d seen outside of a movie. He was looking at Jim the way I look at Fritz when he has outdone himself in the kitchen and I wish to show my appreciation by making him blush, only Hattersley meant it. “This is Archie Goodwin. He works for Nero Wolfe, the detective. He’s investigating a little matter for me. Won’t you sit down?”

Jim stayed standing. “What matter? Why did you bring him here?” 

He alternated between glaring at me and at Hattersley, and I was just starting to like him for the blackmail when it occurred to me that I had seen that look before. He was jealous, or working up to it. I’ve seen that look on the faces of plenty of men before when they’ve objected to a woman they had feelings for enjoying the pleasure of my company. My only excuse for being slow to pick it up this time is that I was unaccustomed to dealing with homosexuals and had failed to consider that they might be as dumb as regular men.

“I am here because Nero Wolfe sent me and he pays my salary,” I said. “He’s thinking of going into the nightclub line and asked Mr Hattersley here to show me around. The star turn will be his act where he sits still in a chair for three hours, and every cocktail will be named after an orchid. Now, speaking of cocktails, why don’t you sit down and have a drink with us and let Mr Hattersley explain things?”

Jim sat down reluctantly and I flagged down a passing waiter. “I still don’t see-”

I never did get to find out what it was that Jim didn’t see because when the waiter got close I recognised his face. Barney Milhew, five foot nothing, former hotel detective at the BelleVue, currently wanted in the state of New York for outstanding charges relating to fraud and blackmail and by me because he once took ten dollars of Nero Wolfe’s money and proceeded to tip off the man we were after. If it hadn’t been for some swift work on Saul’s part, we’d have lost the target and a fifty-thousand dollar fee along with him.

“Aw hell,” he said when he saw me, and he dropped his tray and ran.

…

If I had expected Wolfe to be overcome with gratitude that I had solved the case all by himself and saved him doing any work then I would have been disappointed, but I hadn’t and so I wasn’t. He did say, “Satisfactory, Archie,” before returning to his book, which was about par for the course.

“I will send Mr Hattersley a bill for the expenses in the morning,” I said, because the scuffle I’d had with Mayhew in the alley outside the bar had resulted in a tear in my trousers and an unpleasant stain on the elbow of my jacket. It had also resulted in some damage to Mayhew’s person but that didn’t concern me.

Wolfe ignored me and turned a page. He was in heaven. Two cold beers in front of him, his favourite chair under him, Fritz’s filet mignon inside of him, and work behind him. 

“You will be pleased to hear that I have decided to become a homosexual. This will save me approximately twenty-three dollars a week in dinners and drinks. You will be able to stop worrying that I am about to leave you for a wife and Fritz will approve as he doesn’t like my female acquaintances any more than you do. The only downsides that I can see is that I will have to learn new dance steps and half the women in Manhattan will be broken-hearted, but-”

“Shut up,” said Wolfe without looking up.

I grinned and shut up, but I didn’t leave the room. Instead I got up from my chair and went to the bookshelf where there was the King James bible Wolfe uses when doing the crossword.

“What on Earth are you doing?” said Wolfe after I’d been flicking through the pages for a few minutes.

“Verifying a hunch.” I closed the Bible and returned it to its place. “I wanted to check the seven deadly sins. Of course you are personally acquainted with pride, sloth, envy, greed, gluttony and wrath, but-”

“Archie,” said Wolfe with only mild exasperation, which proved that I was losing my touch. “You are being objectionable. Feel free to go to a movie, or a nightclub, or whatever it is you’re angling for an excuse to do.”

“You’re the boss,” I said, and skedaddled.

…

Though you wouldn’t know it by looking at him, Saul Panzer is my equal or superior in every professional skill except Wolfe-wrangling. He lives alone in an apartment on the top floor of a re-modelled house on Thirty-Eighth Street, which he owns. The air had cooled down enough to make it a pleasant night for walking and I used the time while my legs were working to consider possible approaches.

Saul was at home, and he did not appear overly surprised to see me. “’Lo, Archie,” he said as he let me in. “Been rough-housing?”

That was uncalled-for as I had stopped by my room to change before coming out, and anyway the old brown suit Saul was wearing looking like it hadn’t been pressed for weeks. “It was in the interest of a client’s good name and fee,” I informed him.

Saul nodded. One of the reasons Wolfe likes him so much is that he is not inclined to chatter unnecessarily. I like him for different reasons, such as the way he poured us both drinks and sat down and just waited for me to tell him why I had come.

“The client was Lionel Hattersley, with whom you may or may not be acquainted,” I said.

Not a flicker in Saul’s deep brown eyes.

“Your father was a Methodist minister, and you have never been to Damascus.”

Saul’s poker face remained intact for one, two, three, four, five seconds - and then he grinned at me.

“Nice catch,” he said.

I acknowledged the compliment with a tilt of my head.

“You’re not queer.”

“Neither are you. I looked up the word before I came out. According to the dictionary it means strange, odd or, if you’re British, which I am not, slightly ill. I feel fine.”

“You look it,” said Saul, still smiling, which more than made up for his earlier crack about my appearance. He leaned closer and-

But my social life is irrelevant to the case and I’m sure will be of no interest to anyone reading. Let me just say that Saul and I played a lot of pinochle that night, and that Saul is about as good as you might expect but I did not wind up a loser.


End file.
